


Longing

by draculard



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bill and Fleur are happily married with a complex relationship, Bill and Ginny also have a complex but happy relationship, Depressed Bill Weasley, F/F, Forbidden Love, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Holyhead Harpies, Implied Sibling Incest, NO BASHING OF ANY CHARACTERS, Pining, Post-War, Shell Cottage (Harry Potter), Traumatized Bill Weasley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-03-02 21:46:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18819637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: She could stay with anyone, but she really only feels at home with Bill and Fleur.





	Longing

After the war, Ginny doesn’t really have her own place to live. She’s picked up by the Harpies before she ever finds her own apartment, and they’re on the move so constantly, with games in every country around the world, that she just never gets around to it. In-season, she crashes with her teammates in the UK, or sleeps in hotel rooms paid for by the manager. Out of season, there’s any number of people she can stay with.

Mum and Dad, at the Burrow. Percy, with his stark, modern apartment in Muggle London. Charlie, in his strange little enchanted yurt at the dragon reserve; George, in the quarters over Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. She can even stay with Ron, if she wants to, in the tiny place he shares with Harry and Hermione, if she doesn’t mind sleeping on a blow-up mattress on the floor.

The best place to stay, though — she can’t possibly deny it — is Shell Cottage, with Bill and Fleur. A long-time Weasley vacation spot, the cottage has had its own rudimentary Quidditch pitch for as long as Ginny can remember, with rusted goalposts at either end of the field. She’s seen photos of Bill on his first broom zooming around, before a winter gall blew the old wooden stands and broom shed away. She’s seen photos of Dad as a boy, standing next to the newly-constructed goalposts with a smile on his face.

Coming here feels like home, even with pieces of the family missing. When she skids to a halt at the front door with her racing broom under her and her ears blasted to all hell by cold wind, it’s Fleur who greets her, smiling that soft, silvery smile she’s always had.

“Come in,” she says. Her accent has gotten lighter over the years, but it’s still there. Ginny can’t help but smile at the sound of it.

She follows Fleur inside.

* * *

Bill sleeps in a darkened bedroom off the side of the kitchen, his door open just enough the Ginny can make out the lump of blankets on his bed. She can’t be sure whether he’s tired from work or from the recent full moon, and she doesn’t ask. In the kitchen, she leans against the counters, still in her Quidditch leathers, hair in disarray. Fleur flicks her wand, procuring two squat, blue bottles.

One of them floats into Ginny’s hand and she examines it; the label is charmed so that it glitters under the pale sunlight shining in through the window. The words are in French, but the liquid inside pops and sparkles.

“Gigglewater?” Ginny guesses.

“Potterwine,” says Fleur, half-smiling. “He’s grown rather popular in France. We have Potterwine, which is really just chardonnay, and Potter-themed fizzy drinks and candies. My sister sends his merchandise sometimes.”

Ginny snorts and pops the bottle open, taking a swig. The chardonnay crackles and sizzles in her mouth, leaving a pleasant tingling sensation on her lips. “I doubt Harry gets a penny of royalties from that,” she says. She takes another drink, eyes lingering on Fleur’s fluid smile. The soft sound of Bill’s door closing distracts her — when she looks back at Fleur, the smile has simmered down to a smirk.

“He is tired,” Fleur says. “Perhaps we should talk outside?”

Ginny considers; does she really have anything to say to Fleur? She doesn’t mind her presence — not like she used to as a kid — but she isn’t sure she desires it. What would they say to each other? What would they do?

Maybe Fleur is thinking the same thing. Her long, slender fingers wrap around Ginny’s wrist, tugging her gently toward the door. Outside, the sea laps at the edges of the property. The waves are grey-green and as pale as the sun.

Silently, Fleur sits on the back step, crossing her arms so that each hand rests on the opposite shoulder, fingers twisting absently in the cashmere of her blue sweater. A light wind comes at them over the water, blowing back their hair. Ginny almost crosses her eyes trying to watch the way Fleur’s silver strands tangle with her copper ones. When she stops watching, she catches Fleur giving her an amused look and laughs.

Silver and red go well together, she decides. It makes sense Bill and Fleur would be drawn to each other the way they are; two brilliant creatures, each perfectly formed, each (as loath as she was to admit it when she was a teen) kind and gentle and familiar.

She leans her shoulder against Fleur’s, expecting it to be bony, sharp — but as thin as Fleur is, she’s still soft where Ginny is hard and lean beneath her leathers, warm when Ginny can’t stop shivering in the wind.

She could kiss Fleur, she’s sure of it. It wouldn’t be the first time she kissed a girl, and Fleur wouldn’t mind. Her lips would be soft and warm, and she would smile as Ginny kissed her, but she’d kiss her back. And when they pulled away from each other, Fleur’s eyes would be crinkled like she wanted to laugh, and she’d lean closer to Ginny to shield herself from the wind.

But that’s the chardonnay talking. Bill is sleeping just inside, tired from work, from the full moon, from the war. Ginny couldn’t do that, couldn’t hurt him worse than he already is—

And part of her doesn’t believe this. Part of her sees herself pulling back from kissing Fleur, and the door to Shell Cottage opens so Bill can pad out in his bare feet and his pajama pants, shirt gone, hair tousled from sleep. He sees them kissing and smiles; he’d tease Ginny over it with all of Bill’s natural good nature, pull Fleur up against him and ask how Quidditch was, whether Ginny wanted to spend the night, whether she—

“Ginny,” says Fleur, smile gone, “do you worry about him like I do?”

Shifting, Ginny pulls her cloak out from under her and tosses the end of it over Fleur’s shoulders so it covers them both. Fleur takes it in her hand, tugging it closer around her. Behind them, in the cottage, perhaps Bill is sleeping. Perhaps he’ll come out any second now with a bottle of that ridiculous Potterwine and a gentle, crooked smile.

“I do, but…” Ginny struggles for words, for the right thing to say. She feels Fleur’s hand against hers and bites the inside of her cheek. A moment later, Fleur’s fingers are wrapped tight around hers, squeezing gently.

“But he’ll be fine,” Fleur says firmly, staring at the sea. “He’ll be fine.”


End file.
